“No. You can’t leave me. I won’t let you,” said Ewan.
“It’s your turn,” she said. “To cross space and time. To find me.”
“No, don’t leave.”
“Find me,” she said softly. Then she looked down at her small hand, held softly in his, quietly begging, “Don’t let go. Don’t ever let go.”
“I won’t,” he said.
“I know,” she said, smiling one last time. “I know.”
Her body went limp in his arms.
KNOCKS LINGERED A moment; he could not have planned it better had he tried. Watching, delighted, as the two collapsed into each other’s arms before his very eyes, her blood pouring out into a wide, dark puddle beneath them. Though they whispered to each other, it didn’t matter what they were saying; their time was short. While this wouldn’t kill Ewan, it would tear his heart clean out of his chest. There was no better way to make him suffer.
It was the greatest moment of Knocks’s life. At last, he knew what true happiness was.
But Knocks knew that Ewan wouldn’t hold his girlfriend forever, so he made a hasty exit down the stairs, into the empty, lamp-lit parking lot buzzing with bugs circling halogen lights. There was no need to run; Ewan wouldn’t be after him for a few minutes still.
Knocks decided to take the long way home, breathing in the night. The taste of the heartbreak was intoxicating, and he relished it, replaying the moment over and over again in his head. The stars were out, the night was dark, a ridge of clouds teetering on the horizon, threatening to sweep in under the sky and soak the city with an angry Texas thunderstorm.
Two redcaps waited for him as he entered the warehouse, shifting back and forth on nervous feet, fidgeting, their caps in their hands. Each seemed about to speak, neither finding the words. Then they noticed blood like a leaking faucet from Knocks’s hand, the steady drip pooling beneath him.
“Knocks,” said Axel. “Your hand.” He grabbed Knocks’s arm and examined the wound, peering closely at the symmetrical cut. The redcap turned to his companion. “Get the mistress.”
“It’s nothing,” said Knocks, pretending his face didn’t betray otherwise.
“This is no scratch,” said Axel. He dabbed a finger to his tongue, probed the wound, rubbing it along exposed muscle. The spit sizzled unnaturally. Knocks jerked his hand back. Axel shook his head. “This is bad.”
Rhiamon emerged from the shadows in back. She was middle-aged, but still quite pretty, yet one look at Knocks and she aged ten years. She grabbed his hand, exposing the flat of his palm, spitting in it, mumbling a spell in an ancient dialect far older than recorded history.
Immediately the wound bubbled up, frothing red blood boiling out of his hand. Knocks cried out, falling, writhing on the floor. “Why the fuck did you do that?” he screamed. He arched his back, pounding his bloody fist on the cement.
“I had to know,” said Rhiamon. “And now I do.”
“Know what?” he asked, his voice cracking through the pain.
“The blade that cut you was cursed, and no magic can close it. You will die a slow and painful death from that wound, but not too slowly as to see morning.” Rhiamon waved her hand, the pain in Knocks’s hand diminished, the bubbles receding, the ache returning to a dull throb.
Knocks rose to his feet, cradling his hand. “What do I have to do?”
“That wound will never close,” she said. “You have to replace it with one that will.”
Knocks knew immediately what she meant. He nodded silently.
Walking with purpose to a nearby pile of rubble, he pulled from it a single broken shaft of wood. From another pile he drew an oily rag, wrapping it around one end of the splintered shaft. Pulling a beaten, scuffed Zippo from his pocket, he lit the rag, handing the torch to Rhiamon.
“Hold this,” he said. He knelt down to the ground and picked up a small stick, holding it tightly in his good hand. Then he whistled to the two redcaps. “Dietrich, hold my hand and don’t let go. Axel!” He motioned with his eyes to his wrist. “Do it now. Don’t let me lose my nerve. And for fuck’s sake, don’t hit Dietrich.”
Dietrich grabbed Knocks’s wounded hand, each gripping the other as if they were about to arm wrestle. The two locked gazes, Knocks speaking without looking away.
“Do it now,” he said, before placing the stick between his teeth, biting down firmly.
Axel picked up his pike, swinging it a full 180 degrees to sever Knocks’s hand at the wrist. Knocks’s scream was muffled slightly by the stick. Dietrich fell backward, the bloody hand refusing to let go. Blood spurted out of the stump.
Knocks lunged forward, jabbing his arm into the flame atop the torch.
He let out another anguished scream, the stick muffling it once more. The damp air filled with the stench of freshly broiled meat, redcaps salivating at their first whiff. Tears ran down Knocks’s face, the pain just bearable enough for his anger to keep his stump in the fire. Knocks growled, fighting his better instincts to pull away. It had to cook through to stop the bleeding.
Rhiamon smiled, admiring the needless bravery. She could have healed the stump with a few words and a gob of spit, but this was far more entertaining. The years she’d gained worrying about the wound faded away, and she became ever younger the longer Knocks stood screaming before her.
Knocks pulled his arm out from the fire, collapsing on the ground, breathless, his stump steaming, barbecued to a charred, gruesome black. He looked up at Rhiamon.
“Like that?” he asked.
She nodded. “Something like that, yes.”
He laughed—almost maniacally—finding something inexplicably funny about it. “You know what?” he said. “It was worth it. I would go through that a hundred times to see what I just saw.”
“And what is it that you’ve seen?”
“The blade that delivered this wound run through the girl he loves.”
Rhiamon lost ten more years. “He slew the Leanan Sidhe?”
“He did.”
“By his own hand?”
“Both hands.”
“Oh, then there is no time to lose.”
“What do you mean?” he asked. “Are we moving up the plan?”
“The council has ruled,” Rhiamon said through seventeen-year-old lips. “You’re allowed to kill him. They’re raising a war party now.”
Knocks surged to his feet, forgetting the pain. “He’s mine!”
“You can have him,” she said, “if you’re the first to claim his head.”
“What the hell changed everyone’s mind?”
The mood of the room dimmed, growing cold, grim. Dietrich rose to his feet, finally freeing the hand’s grip from his own, wiping the blood off on his trousers. He took his cap off, held it respectfully in his hand. Axel joined him, removing his as well. Rhiamon motioned to the redcaps. “Tell him.”
“What’s got you two so upset?”
One of them spoke up. “We’re not sure we’re the right ones to tell you.”
“Spit it out,” said Knocks.
They shook their heads. “You’re not going to like it,” said the other.
“You know what?” said Knocks with a laugh. “After the night I’ve just had and what I’ve just seen, nothing could bring me down. Go ahead; tell me the genie escaped or that the boy wizard is outside looking for a fight. Nothing can kill my mood.”
The two redcaps looked at each other. Without hesitating they each threw out a match of evens-and-odds. The loser grumbled and scuffed his feet.
“Just say it already,” said Knocks, losing his patience.
“It’s about your mothers,” began the redcap.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
ALL HELL
Colby walked solemnly toward Ewan, words failing him. The world was about to come down on their heads—he had to choose between standing beside his murderous friend or throwing him to the fairies to be torn apart before his eyes.
But seeing him now, all he felt was sadness.
Ewan hadn’t moved since collapsing with Mallaidh. He held her, lifeless, in his arms, slowly rocking her back and forth, whispering softly as if to try to gently rouse her from a deep sleep. But she would not wake. Finally Ewan looked up at Colby, his eyes red and swollen.
“I didn’t mean to,” Ewan whimpered. “They made me think . . . they made me . . .”
“I know,” said Colby.
“They’re coming for me, aren’t they?” he asked. “For what I’ve done?”
Colby nodded. “Yes.”
“How many?”
“Most of them.”
“Is that a lot?”
“Yes it is.”
“How many do you suppose we could kill before they get us?”
Colby’s expression hardened, entertaining the thought. “Between you and me?” he asked. “I reckon we could take out a couple dozen. Maybe more.”
“I hope you’re not just being optimistic.”
“I’m not,” said Colby.
“Do you have a problem with that?”
“I don’t want to kill anyone who doesn’t have it coming.”
“They all have it coming,” said Ewan.
“I don’t think—”
“They took her from me, Colby.” Ewan looked him dead in the eye. “I never got . . . I never got to show her how much I loved her. This is my chance. I’m gonna kill ’em. I’m gonna kill ’em all. And I’m asking you, will you stand beside me when I do?”
Colby nodded. “I did try talking to them.”
“You did,” said Ewan.
“And they did pretty much tell me to go fuck myself.”
“So what does that mean?”
“It means we’re probably going to have to kill them.”
Ewan paused for a moment, gazing down at Mallaidh, stroking her cheek with the back of his hand. “You know what’s happening to me, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“I’m becoming one of them, aren’t I?”
“You always were,” said Colby. “We just didn’t know it.”
“But now?”
“You’re becoming a redcap.”
“I can’t . . . I can’t live like one of those things. I can’t keep killing like this.”
“I know,” said Colby.
“You realize that this is probably the last chance we’re going to have to talk like this, before . . .”
Colby nodded. “Yeah.”
Ewan looked up. “If you had it to do over again, I mean, if you could go back, knowing what you know now, would you still do it?”
“Save you? From them?”
“Yeah.”
“In a heartbeat.”
“Even if you knew it would come to all this?”
“Yes,” said Colby. “Even with all this.”
Ewan smiled. “I used to get pretty down about having only one good friend. I always looked around at the popular kids with dozens and thought something was wrong with me. Turns out something was wrong with me, but one friend was all I really needed.” He looked back down at Mallaidh. “What do we do? With her, I mean.”
“We send her back to where she belongs.”
“How do we do that?”
“Like this.” Slowly, Colby knelt beside the two, putting a hand on Mallaidh. He closed his eyes. Mallaidh exploded into a beautiful puff of orchid petals, the sweet smells of summer and a glimmer of sunlight accompanying the off-white remains to the ground.
Ewan’s eyes grew wide. He hadn’t expected her to be gone so soon.
“Gather together the petals and bury them,” said Colby.
“Do you think she would mind if I carried them around with me?” asked Ewan. “Just for tonight?”
“Mind? She spent her whole life looking for you. I think she’ll take all the time with you she can get.”
“So what now?”
“Now,” said Colby, “we go downtown and see what sort of trouble we can get into.”
IT WAS AN hour before dawn when the two swaggered into downtown. All was silent, everything bathed in a soft, orange, halogen lamplight glow, the city long since dormant, its bars locked up hours before. On the horizon, a ridge of clouds obscured the western stars, creeping over the sky toward the center of town. There wasn’t a soul about; even the angels had fled to their own private roosts, trying to hurry forth the dawn with a steady flow of wine. The two were alone, walking fearlessly toward their fate, neither with a word to say to the other.
Turning a corner they found themselves walking into a thick, knee-high fog. It swirled, thinning into a wispy mist, vanishing completely around their shoulders. From within the mist emerged a dark figure, his face obscured by a large-brimmed hat, under which he smoked a thin, hand-rolled cigarette. Bill the Shadow.
Ewan breathed deeply, his eyes wide, childhood memories nearly causing him to wet his pants. For years, Ewan had suffered nightmares about this man. Now that his memories had returned—Swiss-cheesed though they were—he recognized the lingering shadow for what it was. He’d thought the fighting would begin more dramatically than this, but so be it. Cautiously, he lowered his pike, ready to strike.
“Bill,” said Colby.
“Colby,” said Bill.
“Good to see you.”
“You too.”
“Odd night for a walk,” said Colby, looking around.
“Yep, I reckon it is. Heard there might be a ruckus. Haven’t had me one of those in a while. Thought I might stick around and see what yours looked like.”
“You’re more than welcome.” He motioned to Ewan. “You know Ewan.”
“Kid,” said Bill, tipping his hat to him.
“Bill,” said Ewan, nodding back, uncertain what to make of him.
Colby leaned in toward Bill, speaking softly, “Have you seen Yashar?”
Bill shook his head. “No. No one has.”
There came a stiff bark from the fog, accompanied by the dull clicking of claws on concrete. A golden retriever, his fur matted and ruffled, a small, snarling cluricaun straddling its back, appeared. It was Old Scraps. The wily cluricaun smiled, a small, homemade pike—nothing more than a long cast-iron piece of pipe with a butcher knife wedged into it—in his hand. He nodded politely, pledging his support.
“Thought I’d bring a friend,” said Bill.
“We could use friends,” said Ewan.
“That’s the rumor. Way I hear it, Ruadhri’s bringing every Sidhe on the plateau, and most of the unseelie court.”
“That’s a lot, isn’t it?” asked Ewan.
“Oh yeah,” said Colby, “that’s a lot. Especially for the four of us.”
“I don’t know about that,” said Bill. “It depends on how bad things are about to get.”
That phrase sounded familiar. Bertrand. Colby smiled wryly. “Am I on the right side of this?”
“If you weren’t,” said Bill, “we wouldn’t be here.”
“Well, then,” said Colby with a wry smile, “let’s go get some pissed-off angels.”
Fat Charlie’s Archangel Lounge was only a few blocks away and extraordinarily packed for this time of night. The four stood outside—none of them welcome within—staring into the windows, waiting. After a few moments, Bertrand leaned his head out, and saw them standing there. He nodded to them, then turned around, holding the door open. With a firm whistle, he twirled his fingers in the air, rousing his fellow angels from their stupors.
Out poured eleven drunken fallen angels, each dressed in battered white armor—soiled with age and dinged from a hundred different battles—every one of them carrying a brutal claymore in one hand and a bottle of stiff liquor in the other. Bertrand was the last out the door, a nearly drained bottle of fine Irish whiskey in his hand. “My friends and I heard you might be having something of a rough morning.”
Colby nodded. “It sure looks that way. You boys looking for a fight?”
“Shit,” said Bertrand, “we’re always looking for a fight. Especially against anything
that pays the Devil’s bill with innocent blood.” He turned to his flock. “Boys, drink up. We’re gonna kill some fairies.” The angels leaned their heads back, raising bottles to their lips, drinking sloppily. Then, in unison, they pulled away their bottles, raising them into the air, sounding a boisterous yawp before smashing them on the pavement with a resounding shatter. Each angel flapped his wings, taking to the sky. Glass ricocheted off the sidewalk, whiskey splashing Rorschach patterns, feathers gently floating to the ground around them.
The night grew suddenly quiet.
Bill cocked his head, listening to the wind. “They’re here.”
Angels lined the buildings along both sides of the street, perching upon the ledges, swords in hand. Bill took a deep breath before exhaling a thick, sticky fog that swept briskly over the streets, snaking its way into alleys, roiling like a sea just before the storm. He breathed and he breathed until he could breathe no more, coughing out enough dewy murk to obscure several city blocks.
Old Scraps trotted his pup next to Colby and stopped, looking up at him. Colby returned the look in kind. “I like you, kid,” said Scraps. “You’ve got bigger balls than anyone else in this town, that’s for sure. I’m proud to have been your bartender.”
Colby laughed. “And I, your patron. You need something to drink before we do this?”
Old Scraps grinned. “Are you kidding?” he asked. “I’ve been drunk for hours. HIYAH!” He spurred his dog off, disappearing into the mist.
KNOCKS MINDLESSLY FIDDLED with the blood-soaked rag tied tightly around his stump, his mind ten minutes ahead of him, in the thick of battle. They had chosen to come up from the lake, traveling alongside the river, outrunning the storm at their heels by mere minutes. Two dozen Sidhe, a handful of redcaps, and a smattering of other creatures slid quietly through the early-morning darkness. Several minutes behind them, a second contingent—nearly twice as large—made their way around the city to outflank anyone who stood with Colby and Ewan.
Knocks hoped the second wave wouldn’t need to fight.
They made their way up from the banks, fleetly shuffling from building to building, the air thick and hazy, growing thicker the farther into town they pressed. Something wasn’t right. Ruadhri sniffed deeply, wetting a finger on his tongue, raising it above his head.
Dreams and Shadows: A Novel Page 34